At the Castro Theater, on an unusually warm November night in San Francisco I was treated to a rare, cinematic masterpiece. Particularly unique to this screening was the fact that a full orchestra and a complete choir provided the accompaniment to the silent film. But even more unique was the film itself – a film that I had never known about, but whose story is just as epic as the events of the film’s own loss and re-discovery after years of having been forgotten.

The Passion of Joan of Arc is consistently given the laurels as one of the greatest movies of all time. Maria Falconetti’s performance as the 19-year-old Saint, Joan of Arc, has been called the 26th greatest performance in cinema. Sight & Sound’s top ten films poll listed Passion three times (in 1952, 1972, and 1992). But Passion itself is not the remarkable story, despite its revolutionary cinematography and film editing techniques.

No, the real story is that of Director Theodore Dreyer, who spent $9 million in 1928 dollars on the Passion of Joan of Arc only to see its destruction by fire a year later. Dreyer died in 1968 believing that his uncut, 86-minute opus in its original format was lost forever. History, however, has strange ways of creeping back into notoriety.

When Dreyer passed in 1968, there were only a few rudimentary cuts of the film remaining (whatever wasn’t consumed by fire was censored by religious leaders for its harsh portrayal of Joan’s inquisitors who – let’s not forget – were men of ‘religious esteem’). Dreyer painstakingly tried to piece together fragments in a 1933 release that was 61 minutes long (the original was 86). The film circulated for some time in its less then perfect format until the second original was destroyed once again, annoyingly enough by fire once again.

Still, in pure, poetic justice to the film’s namesake and Joan herself (who was given sainthood by the Catholic Church just seven years before the film’s release) an uncut, original release re-emerged in 1981. It appeared in the most unlikely of places: Deep in the bowels of a closet within the maze of passageways of an abandoned psychiatric hospital in Oslo, Norway. An unknown doctor had ordered the film – perhaps intending to show it to his troubled patients as an example of Christian virtue (or maybe even to show his mentally ill patients that divinity is sometimes perceived wrongly as “insanity”). What mattered was that history had rediscovered something it never should have lost — and all because someone forgot to throw away something in their closet.

The warm November night I sat admiring the Castro Theater’s Spanish Colonial embellishments and the deco sconces, I imagined the original screening of the film in the very place I was sitting. The Wurlitzer Pipe Organ started the show with verve. The curtains separated. And the lights dimmed. Maria Falconetti’s face appeared, in dramatic close-up. Her tears were palpable, and hundreds of strings heralded the beginning of the oratorio created specifically, and inspired by, the film. Richard Einhorn’s “Voices of Light” could not have been a better match for the dramatic images of Joan of Arc’s final days alive.

As it turned out, Passion would be Falconetti’s final performance as a film actress. After a stint as a stage actor, she escaped from France to Argentina at the height of World War II and lived her final days in peace (no doubt from Dreyer’s authoriatarian style of directing). But the re-discovery of The Passion of Joan of Arc will always be considered one of the great blessings of modern cinema. Chances of its survival were slim – the Library of Congress estimates that only 10% of films made before 1928 exist today. But in its 1,300 individual shots, its three-dimensional multi-million dollar set, and the painful passion exhibited on the face of Maria Falconetti we see a new purpose in the preservation of history, even for something as ‘kitsch’ as a reel of old film.

photo credit: One From RM

It was in January of 1942 that it was widely believed Nazi Germany made the decision to kill 11 million Jews, homosexuals, Jehovah’s witnesses, Roma, political prisoners, and Blacks. Since then, the January 1942 epoch is what all historians have marked the actual beginning of the “purge.” But recent architectural drawings, discovered in a flat in Berlin seem to indicate that the decision was dated much earlier than widely assumed. The newly discovered Auschwitz plans (also known as Oświęcim) contain 28 pages of yellowing renderings – largely drawn by SS technicians, but also by inmates who may have eventually faced the death camp itself. These plans may provide definitive proof that the decision to purge the Jews was made as early as the drawing of these documents: Oct 23, 1941.

The documents, other than the vital evidence they provide in the way of dates, also point towards the systematic and deliberate understanding of most SS officers and high-ranking German officials: Hitler’s plan was not a secretly carried out attempt, but rather a well-recorded and deliberate effort, of which even low-level officers were well aware.

The blueprints themselves reveal chilling details.  One area, boldly marked the “Gaskammer,” or gas chamber, shows a 11.66 metre by 11.20 metre room where prisoners were tricked into entering by believing they were communal showers.

“The documents disprove beyond all doubt that which Holocaust deniers claim…” said Hans-Dieter Kreikamp, head of the federal archives office in Berlin, “… That Auschwitz was nothing more than a labour camp where no gassing took place.”

Kreikamp even affirms that a portion of the blueprints, drawn in distinctive green ink, are from the pen of none other than SS chief Heinrich Himmler. Still, speculation is swirling about the potential authenticity of the documents. Prof. Robert Jan van Pelt, an expert on the planning and construction of Auschwitz, believes that the plans are not Auschwitz, but rather plans for a forced labor camp meant to house 130,000 prisoners. He said the plans have been acknowledged for years, and that they may exist in the Polish National Museum at Auschwitz and in an archive in Moscow.

Even though the plans that were in the SS offices in Berlin during the 1944 bombings by Allied forces were said to be destroyed, it’s possible that they survived, but unlikely. Van Pelt believes that the “gas chamber” room in the drawings was likely a room meant to disinfect clothing, and that Heinrich Himmler, as such a high-ranking official, would not be found scribbling on the plans of a camp, despite how large. Van Pelt speculates that the document itself is likely a forge, likely copied from the Polish National Archives record, considering the large interest and market for Nazi memorabilia online.

Further Research

http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1035958.html

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/worldnews/europe/germany/3411647/Auschwitz-plans-found-in-Berlin-flat.html

After hours and hours of traveling through a tiny–but newly paved–road through the South of Mexico, amidst palm trees and rickety bamboo huts we finally see the sign: Chacahua 29 km. The sign points towards a tiny muddy road surrounded by lush jungle. After a bumpy hour, we hop on to a tiny motorboat and cross a lagoon alive with mangroves, crocodiles and cranes. Up ahead, the mouth of the lagoon widens impressively and merges harmoniously with the ocean. The boat stops and we step off to Chacahua–a beautiful untouched land, a place where locals know no prejudices, an island of complete relaxation rustic style.

We clamber off the boat and are received by a flurry of tiny bare feet approaching us with open curiosity. Brown children with masses of curly hair peer at us from behind dark wide eyes, probably wondering who these strangers with shoe-covered feet and music coming from strange cablings are. A little girl boldly approaches my friend Daniel and thrusts a set of playing cards in his palm which he kindly rejects–we are eager to drop our stuff off at some accommodations first. Nonetheless, I take her gesture to be a clear symbol of how fast we’ve been welcomed into the island.

After crossing many sandy paths, quiet save for the waves crashing on one side and the sound of tropical birds chirping on the other, we reach a wider road lined with straw houses and lush gardens–Chacahua’s main, and only street. Behind the threadbare huts with roosters and dogs running around, old men with straw hats gather on stone benches and hammocks while their wives cook and gossip. The spicy aroma of garlic and fish wafts through their outdoor stoves and mingles deliciously with the sea breeze and the fresh smell of exotic plants. Further down the road, a handful of boys of all ages play a frenzied game of soccer while a guitarist strumms a mellow tropical song–the perfect background music for the relaxing, unified atmosphere that prevails.

The Beach and Food of Chacahua

Once at the beach, groups of squat, straw and bamboo cottages surrounded by hammocks, tables and chairs shaded by palm roofs await us: the accommodations. We settle for a rickety cabin owned by El Piojo, who is notorious for his hospitality and cheap prices. For about seven dollars, we get a shared bathroom along with a straw cabin complete with a brightly colored double bed, mosquito netting, murals on the wall and and a floor of sand.

As I settle into the cozy cabin, I look forward to a week with no TV or electricity–without those everyday distractions I am sure to appreciate new aspects in life. My chance comes immediately in the form of a shower. The outdoor, hilltop water source with birds chirping, and the juxtaposition of warm sun and cool water on my skin washes away my city girl demeanor. Even the absence of a mirror strips of any lingering signs of vanity.

Feeling humbled and clean I stroll towards the hammocks where a choco-banana milkshake, breaded shrimp with lime and some savory quesadillas await me, deliciously fresh. Five urban dwellers who now don scraggly, tangled beach hair, a fresh tan, and a Chacahuan open, friendly manner join me for lunch and light conversation. They claim that Chacahua is the only beach on the coast that has not been tainted by exterior commerce, disrespectful tourists, or greedy overpricing locals. I agree.

As if to prove our point, El Piojo chooses that moment to saunter over to our table, carrying complimentary glasses of homemade mezcalito for us to sample. He also gives me one more reason to relax by explaining that his policy for charging consists of an account where accommodations, food and drink are written down and only charged at the end of our stay. No counting money, no waiting for bills, no hassles.

“Oh, look there’s Benji,” our host suddenly exclaims, “He’s quite the character. Has never left the island.” Sure enough, an eccentric, one-eyed, old man is approaching us, singing loudly.

Benji grasps my hand and hugs me amiably. His animated voice entertains us with stories about Chacahua–his grandmother the town millionaire, who owned the only brick house in the island, the time the government unsuccessfully tried to intervene in Chacahua, and the pleasures of island living. “Man, I be living here all my life and let me tell you, my law is nature. No law man in uniform gonna tell me what to do, no technology gonna invade Chacahua. If you gonna come you gonna respect,” he declares.

I ask Benji about activities to do in Chacahua, and he chuckles and gestures toward the beach. But, he says, if we want something else, tomorrow he’ll take us swimming in the lagoons at sunset, where multi-colored fluorescent plankton light up the water. “But for now, I be going. Remember the same sun is for everyone, the plants, the animals and us.” And with that, he saunters away.

We opt for a walk as well, for the day stretches languidly on. Daniel and I stroll along the beach, basking in the peaceful sun’s glow and in the endless strip of bare, uninhibited sand and lush jungle. On an impulse, I run freely towards the ocean.

Gentle waves lap around my waist. Thousands of brightly colored fish swim underneath me, unfazed by my presence. Even the pelicans are at peace, lolling like ducks on the sea, letting the water guide them. I venture deeper into the great crystal clear waters, where the waves crash harder and my toes barely touch the ground. My reverie is interrupted by Daniel’s deep intake of breath “Manrays,” he says in a hushed whisper. I turn to see two dark shadows gliding in and out of the waves. One suddenly jumps impressively in a sort of pirouette, followed in perfect synchrony by the other. Awestruck, I watch their water dance from a farther distance.

“Woah, we truly are in a peaceful natural oasis,” I murmur. We move on with our nature walk, spotting various species of birds, dolphins and even an alligator which we promptly pass by quickly. Dotting the beach, are the occasional nudist tourists, groups of locals eating together and even children wandering by themselves. All seem immersed in freedom and peace.

As we walk back to town, wisps of night begin to paint the sky with hues of oranges and pinks. The sun slowly descends into the water, leaving its reflection sparkling vividly in the waves. Within minutes Chacahua glows an eery blue that paints even the soft, sand colored cottages and roofs.

In the distance, we hear the sound of beating drums. At this point, Chacahua is pitch black save for the tiny light of the bonfire where the sound comes from. Daniel and I stumble blindly around and I look towards the sky for guidance. I am greeted by the most enchanting, magical site of all: millions of dazzling stars dotting the dome of sky, tantalizing and hypnotizing. Untainted by artificial lights and electricity, the stars glow in their entire captivating splendor.

In a daze, we make our way towards the bonfire, our eyes rooted to the sky and our ears serving as guide. We arrive too overwhelmed to speak, and simply let ourselves be carried off into a trance of mystical chantings and myriads of stars. I partake in the raw, powerful sounds of tourists and locals gathering together with djembes, handrums, chants, and good vibrations paying tribute to the mystical land of Chacahua.